


cast some light

by cosmicwarden (necrotype)



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 13:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/cosmicwarden
Summary: Madara and Hashirama, at the end of a long day.





	cast some light

Hashirama’s bedroom was disorganized, a mess of stacked papers and cups halfway filled with old water, with vibrant summer plants spilling out of their pots and kept alive only by Hashirama’s chakra through the winter. At the center of it all was an unmade bed that Madara immediately crawled into, with a low content hum to bury himself under the layers of thick blankets.

The house wasn’t much warmer than outside, but after spending hours in agonizingly slow meetings, planning out the specifics of another alliance, Hashirama couldn’t bring himself to care much. Madara seemed just as tired, having just returned from another mission outside the village, and he settled more deeply under the heavy layers while Hashirama changed into his sleepwear.

After a few minutes, Hashirama slid into bed next to him, and out of habit he placed a hand on Madara’s cheek, and another on a jagged scar on his hip.

“Your hands are cold,” Madara grumbled, firm, like he didn’t expect a response and was simply stating a terrible fact. He shifted, but he didn’t move away from Hashirama’s touch, and instead turned his head until his lips brushed against the cool palm of Hashirama’s hand.

“Well, it’s cold outside,” Hashirama said with mock patience, and Madara huffed at the teasing laugh in his voice. “Didn’t you notice?”

“Annoying,” Madara mumbled against Hashirama’s hand, a wet and tired noise on the rough skin. His eyes fluttered shut, and Hashirama, not for the first time, found himself staring at Madara’s long and dark eyelashes, the way they looked on the permanent bags under Madara’s eyes. “You’re so annoying, you know that?”

Hashirama made a hurt noise in the back of his throat, a pretense loaded with the undertones of a laugh, and he could feel Madara’s soft lips slant into a smile.

For a few moments, Hashirama focused on the slow, steady stroke of his thumb on Madara’s hip, on how Madara’s breathing sped incrementally up at the simple touch, on how his brow furrowed just a little bit when Hashirama pressed his fingers harder against the bone.

“I could go make tea,” Hashirama offered, after a long pause. “If you’re cold.” His fingers tapped out a poor semblance of a rhythm onto Madara’s hip.

“No,” Madara said into his palm. The word stretched out like a long and content sigh. “Stay in bed with me.” He wrapped a hand around Hashirama’s wrist, and kissed his hand chastely before turning his head to face Hashirama fully, dark eyes cracking open.

It seemed very natural for Hashirama to lean forward, then, and kiss Madara’s chapped lips, mouth just slightly open. He could taste the curl of smoke and ash that never quite seemed to clear from Madara’s skin, and it made him dizzy and lightheaded.

Madara kissed him very slowly, without expectation. His lips moved with a languid sort of laziness that matched the still chill in the air, but the hand he wove into Hashirama’s hair, brushing against the base of his neck, was wonderfully warm. His nails grazed against Hashirama with just the hint of a scratch and sent little sparks shooting underneath his skin.

“Are you too tired?” Hashirama asked, when Madara stifled a yawn that made his jaw go tense. “We don’t have to, tonight.” He pulled back, propping himself up on an elbow to look at Madara. The blankets shifted around him as he moved, exposing his skin to the chill around them.

“I want to,” Madara said, simply, with a trace of annoyance in his voice, and so Hashirama moved into the space between his parted legs, careful to keep the blankets covering them both.

Below him, Madara was relaxed, like he had melted to sink into the mattress, eyes hazy but watching him intently as he settled between Madara’s muscled thighs and ran his hands over Madara’s rib cage.

“Hashirama,” Madara murmured, like that was all he had the energy to say. His voice was groggy still, worn down from their long day, but reached up to cup Hashirama’s cheek gently, grazing his fingers across Hashirama’s lips.

It was moments like these that made Hashirama’s chest fill with a light, bubbling feeling, when Madara stared at him with adoration and a level of trust he didn’t show anyone else, silent and with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Carefully, Hashirama leaned down and tipped his forehead against Madara’s, so that their breaths mingled, and Madara spread his thighs wider to accommodate him.

Hashirama opened his mouth to speak—some variation of _I love you_ , an explanation for why his heart was pounding loudly in his chest—but Madara’s lips brushed against his before deepening into a proper kiss, and so Hashirama focused on that instead.

Madara’s hair, fanned out around his head in a tangled dark mess of strands, inky black against the white sheets and blankets, was clean and free of brush for once. It was silky around Hashirama’s fingers when he buried a hand into it, tugging somewhat sharply and coaxing a surprisingly sweet-sounding moan from Madara as his cheeks flushed and his eyes closed involuntarily.

“I’m going to fall asleep if you don’t hurry up,” Madara said, and his voice was much lower now, softer and drawn out. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Hashirama’s mouth, and moved a calloused hand lower, stopping on Hashirama’s bare stomach and stroking the skin there lightly.

“Yes,” Hashirama said, breathlessly, pressing forward.

Madara rarely made sex a quiet affair, but in the winter he was subdued, like the cold settled into his muscles and made him gentle and calm. After a while, the only thing he could do was mouth at Hashirama’s neck, wordless, with his breathing coming out in short, staccato moans that made Hashirama’s skin feel too tight around his bones.

The hand Hashirama wrapped around Madara’s dick was rougher than he meant it to be, but Madara sucked in a sharp hiss of air and exhaled shakily before giving an unguarded smile that Hashirama could feel against the pulsepoint on his throat.

“Is this good?” Hashirama asked, unable to stop himself from babbling. He felt dazed, winded, from the feeling of Madara’s thighs pressed firmly on his hip bones, the way Madara was propped up on an elbow to be closer to him, sporadically clenching and unclenching a fist in the sheets. “Are you good?”

At that, Madara groaned softly, scraped his teeth against Hashirama’s neck briefly. “Yes,” and he punctuated it by wrapping his legs tighter around Hashirama, moving a hand to wrap it in the long hair spilling over Hashirama’s shoulders as he moved, tugging just enough to make Hashirama’s skin prickle delightfully. “Don’t stop,” he warned, harsh.

Hashirama smiled wide enough to make his cheeks hurt, and he leaned more heavily onto Madara, knees scraping the scratchy sheets twisted up below them. “No,” he agreed. “I won’t.”

They moved slowly together, with Madara mumbling softly against the curve of his shoulder until Hashirama tilted his hips just so, and then his head abruptly fell back onto his pillow, eyes squeezed shut as he bit his bottom lip hard enough to made it swollen and red.

The sight made Hashirama’s hips stutter in an ungraceful rhythm for a moment. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. The words came out raw, like he had scraped them out of his throat, and Madara immediately flushed an even darker shade of pink and twisted his lips into a frown. Hashirama cut him off before he could complain. “I know you don’t like me saying it, but you’re so beautiful, Madara.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Beneath him, Madara was pliant, malleable under his hands, and Hashirama wanted to run his mouth over the scars that covered most of his body, nicks and gashes from weapons, and rosy burn marks that never quite faded. Madara pried his eyes open and looked up, a mixture of vulnerable and heated, and his eyes were a swirling vibrant red that makes Hashirama feel unreasonably hot.

Flat on his back, Madara breathed in deeply, but it was far from steady. Hashirama could feel his thighs trembling minutely at his hips, and the hand Madara had in his hair tightened. Despite how cold the room was, Hashirama was sweating, flushed deeply, with his hair sticking to his tacky shoulders, and Madara didn’t look much better with his top thrown open and disheveled.

“You’re unbelievable,” Hashirama continued, leaning down until their chests were pressed together. The sigh Madara let out was soft, gentle, a hot exhale on his lips, and Hashirama’s own breath seemed loud and clumsy in comparison, an involuntary response that made their mouths brush together lightly. “You’re so good, Madara,” and he was off and rambling again, whispering praises against Madara’s lips.

“Shut up,” Madara mumbled, distantly and reflexively, but the fingers he curled around the back of Hashirama’s neck were gentle, pulling him into a shaky kiss that betrayed how tired he was. “I love you, but you don’t have to write poetry in bed, Hashirama. Just—come on.”

Hashirama moved his hand roughly again, and Madara groaned out his name against Hashirama’s open mouth, a gasp that was punched out of him and broken on his tongue. “Oh,” and it came out like a low whimper. He put a hand over Hashirama’s, coaxing him to be less gentle, less of a request and more of a demand. Hashirama laughed, almost desperately, because his heart felt like it was about to burst out of him.

“Do that again,” Madara said, tilting his head back. His hand tightened on Hashirama’s, thumb brushing over the knuckles. His lips curled up marginally at the edges. “Yes, yes, like that, Hashirama.” The words trailed off, pitch ticking up at the end, as he moved his hand.

Madara arched his back in a fluid motion, letting his legs fall open, as Hashirama shifted his hips. Wildly, he tangled his hand deeper into Hashirama’s hair, scraping his nails between Hashirama’s shoulder blades. His moans, an uneven stream of short “ah”s, were louder now, hanging in the air around them and filling the small space between them, and Hashirama could feel his chest heaving below him.

Uncaring about his teeth dragging on Madara’s skin, Hashirama pressed open-mouthed kisses onto Madara’s collarbone, catching on some old silvery scars. “Madara,” he pleaded, a litany of the name over and over, spoken into the bone.

When Madara came, it was with a soft exhale, a sudden stiffening in his back as his legs trembled and then relaxed, heels digging into the mattress. He didn’t move for a few long moments, panting heavily and making low noises in the back of his throat, and then he surged up and wrapped his arms around Hashirama’s shoulders, pulling them closer together so he could graze his lips lightly on the shell of Hashirama’s ear to whisper nearly unintelligible love and encouragement.

It didn’t take long for Hashirama to finish after that with a gasp into Madara’s broad shoulder, nose buried in Madara’s smokey hair, hand gripping his hip tightly enough that he was sure it would bruise.

“I—” Hashirama said, hoarsely, and then, “Oh—” as he slipped off of Madara and to the side, and Madara let out a low sigh as he moved. His muscles were spasming still, and the lethargy that settled over him was heavy and immediate, making him feel impossibly boneless. Madara huffed out a tired laugh and hummed something that sounded like a muffled "I love you" in response. 

“I should clean us up,” Hashirama finally managed, once he got his voice to cooperate with him, but Madara pressed closer together under the blankets, and rested his arm on Hashirama’s waist, settling his hand on the small of Hashirama’s back.

“Later,” Madara mumbled, definitively, into the crux of Hashirama’s neck. Their hair was probably tangled together again, but that mess could wait until the morning, too. “Don’t leave. I want to sleep.” He sounded half-asleep already, and Hashirama could feel himself following closely behind, as he struggled to keep his eyes open and focused on the top of Madara’s head.

“Yeah,” Hashirama agreed after a moment, feeling loose-limbed and so unbelievably warm, and he settled more comfortably in Madara’s arms, letting that contact lull him quietly into sleep.


End file.
